Can't sleep, so I figured I'd get up and grade. My heart is troubled and I'm wishing I had done something else with my life other than teaching—at least in part. I have only ever wanted to teach, but more and more the joy of it is dissipating. Inevitably, someone is unhappy with our choices, dismayed by our supposed lack of judgement, and distraught over our expectations. I suppose that happens in any line of work, but when you work so hard to provide the best for students and people shoot down your efforts while hiding behind the statements of "teachers aren't paid enough, and I support teachers," you begin to wonder if it is all worth it. When will we feel the support we supposedly have from parents?

The journal has accepted my revisions and my paper will be published in the summer edition of The Explicator. I am really rather excited by this because I've always wanted to be "officially" published. I am most proud of the fact that it is a scholarly work. I've wanted to publish children's books and young adult novels before, but it's not really my bag. I"m more of a creative non-fiction writer. Funny thing is that I didn't discover that until last summer when I was taking some creative writing courses. I never really had a label for the types of works that I write until I had taken those two courses. In fact the whole reason I started blogging was because of my creative writing class.

On a different note, I am finally beginning to relax a bit. I took a trip to Kingman to see my dad for Father's Day and now I'm in Payson at my mother-in-law's. I'm sitting on the lounge chair she bought just for me and enjoying the cooler mountain air. Birds are chirping and I can hear my mother-in-law in the kitchen getting the turkey ready for baking. It's very peaceful. I've been reading a few magazines that I love: Artful Blogging and Somerset Life. They are beautiful to look at inspiring to read. I highly recommend them to anyone who enjoys arts and crafts.

At home, things are shaping up. I've been through nearly each room in the house, organizing and reordering, throwing away and recycling. It's quite wonderful actually. It is refreshing to clean up and clear out. We are going to have our last two carpeted rooms stripped of carpet and the concrete acid stained. I can't wait to get rid of those disgusting carpets. My daughter's room and the office (which is now my craft room) will be free from the pee stained, hair infested, stain covered, nasty carpet. I plan to redesign my craft space and I'm looking forward to getting home and back to it. I've had a few days off now and I'm ready to get back to work on my house. I only have about 6 more days to put everything in order. I have to pack up the two rooms, remove everything from both rooms, clear out my bedroom as well (so the floor can be resealed when they come to stain the other two floors) and pack for New York. Maddie and I are going to stay on my brother's farm for a whole month. My husband is coming too, but only for a few weeks. We are going to go meet his publisher and his agent. Plus we get to see a Broadway show. I've never been, so I'm looking forward to the new experience. The show is inspired by Green Day and is called "An American Idiot." Should be fun.

I'm glad that school is out and now I can focus on my home. There is so much that needs to be done around the house; everything had to be put on hold while I finished up the school year. Anyone who teaches English can relate to what I'm talking about, I'm sure. I truly feel that I gave this school year all that I had. I'm not sure what drives me to do what I do. I love my kids and I love to teach, but I think it's more than that. My husband told me today that I need to learn how to relax. I was telling him that I wish I felt more ambitious today (the first day off from school) and he told me, "You don't need to be ambitious; you need to learn to relax." I suppose he is right. I feel like such a slug if I relax. Perhaps I just don't know how to do it. I feel as if I always need to be gainfully employed in something. It doesn't so much matter what it is, but I have to feel like I've accomplished something worthy of accomplishing. Whether that something be cleaning the pet hair off the floor, pulling weeds, learning something new from a TV program—I'm rather fond of HGTV—or hanging out with a friend, I have to be doing something worthwhile. I rarely just sit and do nothing. Even now, I'm sitting, but I'm blogging. In a few moments, I'll be heading to Coolidge to hang out with some of my husband's friends, and you know what I've packed to bring with me? —a paper that I wrote for my Grad. Research class because a journal wants to publish it and it needs revisions. I'm compelled to make the revisions quickly, even though I told the editor I needed more time than just this week. I have to finish it or I won't really relax; however, perhaps I don't even know how to relax, so what does it matter?

I miss Dad.  My father-in-law passed away last week and yesterday we had the funeral to say goodbye.  It was an emotional day. I'm so proud of my husband.  His speech was warm, humorous, and heartbreaking, but most of all true.  Stories were shared, Taps was played, and the honor guard fired three shots in honor of Dad's service to his country. After respectfully giving their condolences to Mom and granting her the Flag signifying their appreciation for Dad's service in the Navy, they escorted her out of the room.  Lining up to say to say thanks to everyone for coming, all I could think about was his smile and how I would never see it again—at least not in this life—his smile and the twinkle in his eyes.  I miss Dad.

I haven't been on in a while, but I have some rather exciting news.  My husband's books are going to be published.  He got an agent at the end of the summer, and his agent found a publisher who was incredibly enthusiastic about the series.  Del Ray, a division of Random House, bought my husband's trilogy.  The first book is scheduled to be out in 2011 and every month after until all three books are published.  I'm not sure what month the first book comes out, but it will be titled Hounded.  It's also going to be an audio book.  : )

On Loss

On Loss

 

            I have lost a great many things in my life. Teddy bears for one, a koala to be exact.  I desperately wanted my father to turn around and go back to the house I had left it at, but he didn’t.  I sat in the car, crying for what seemed like endless miles.  I remember thinking, “he could turn around if he wanted to, if he cared about me he would turn around, adults can do anything they want, if he wanted to he could”—on an on my mind went—playing out the injustice of it all.  I vowed that day that if my child ever lost anything so special to her, I would turn around, I would make a call, I would not let it go and let her cry. Simply accepting the loss was (and often still is) unacceptable to me. 

            I know that there are some losses in life that one must accept, but I’ll be the first to admit that I have a hard time with it. If I set a goal for myself, no matter how small, it must be attained.  If I have an idea, I have to see it come to fruition.  If I make a plan, it must be acted out.  I will find a way to see it to the end.  I refuse to let it fall into the harsh and calloused hands of Loss.  Yet even with this attitude I cannot escape Loss— loss of sleep, loss of time with family because I just have to get ___ project done now, loss of money because I have to get ___ project done now, loss of true clarity because I’m so focused that I lose my vision, loss of a chance to… you name it.   It doesn’t matter what I do; sometimes Loss marches in and sits boldly at the table waiting to be fed. 

            No matter how unacceptable I may view Loss’s behavior to be, I’ll admit there are times when my actions invite her in.  I leave the door open and the welcome mat out.  I will concede that.  However, I never did anything to merit one of Loss’s cruelest deeds.  Just as I became a mother myself, Loss stepped in with Death smiling at her side, and snatched the one person who at the time I needed most—my mother. I did the usual process of grieving.  I walked the twelve steps, or however many there are in the grieving process.  I’ve lost count— I’ve been up and down them so much.  I suppose I could say I have dealt with my loss, but that would be a lie.  No, she still comes around and stares at me as I dress, as I drink my coffee, and as I kiss my daughter before sending her off to school. I see Loss eyeing my little girl, but I try not to let fear grip me.  I just pull my daughter close for one more hug and worship the moment, because that is all it is and Loss will come.  I must accept it and not fear.  

Tears Revised

TEARS

            From the time I first heard that my mother had cancer, until the time that I received the call that she was admitted to the ICU, and even after that, there were no tears.  There was only the desire to fight along side of her.  To do anything that she needed. To “be there” for her—whatever that would mean.  No tears. 

            When I watched her go from a vibrant woman to a silent shell, no tears.  When I tried to hug her and she pushed me away because she could no longer take the feel of things touching her skin, no tears.  I remember a doctor telling me the technical term for her action, but I swallowed it, like the lump that formed in my throat and forgave it as my mother had forgiven me so many times.  

            When my father and I had to make the decision to admit her to the hospice room, I didn’t know what that room entailed, but I knew once my mother entered it, she would not be coming out.  No tears.  We all—my father, my Uncle Mike who was my mother’s brother, and my two older brothers, Lonnie and Todd—gathered in the small hospice room and tripped over one another, and slept on recliners and makeshift bed chairs, and sat on window sills and waited.

The dreams I had while waiting for the inevitable were grotesque and disturbing.  One woke me up, and everyone around me as well, for I jumped out of my recliner and yelled out something.  I was so frightened by the dream because in it my mother’s bed was bouncing off the floor from her uncontrollable convulsions.  She was struggling to breathe and had one hand up by her neck as if she was choking and the other was reaching for me.  The room was eerily dark, but I could see that her eyes were wild with terror, and I couldn’t do anything.  I think I must have yelled for help and that is what woke everyone up.  Through blurry eyes I saw my dad standing in front of me and felt the light touch of his hand on my shoulder, “It was only a dream.”  I explained to him that my dream had been of my mother.  “She was struggling to breathe.  The whole bed was shaking and I couldn’t help her.”  My father repeated, “It was only a dream.” 

            He then explained to me that her passing wouldn’t be like that, that she would simply and quietly slip away.   Reassured by his comment and lulled by the sound of my mother’s breathing and the small click of the oxygen machine, I fell back to sleep. 

            It wasn’t long before the sound in the room changed.  It was slight, but startling and we all got to our feet.  My father moved closer to my mother’s frail body on the bed.  I saw my uncle who had been on the hard chair next to my mother cover his mouth and heard him breathe hard and quick through his fingers. My father turned to me, took a few steps in my direction and said, “She’s gone.” 

            Tears.  It was as if every painful moment came crashing in on me at once.  I couldn’t breathe, and my father held on to me so I wouldn’t crumple to the floor.  My brothers watched us and wiped their eyes.  As I held onto my father, I realized that my mother was free.  She would no longer have to endure treatments and vomiting and pin pricks and hair loss and the endless list of demoralizing effects of cancer.  It should have been enough for me to realize that she was free, but it wasn’t.  She was free and I would have to learn to walk in this world without her…but I was crippled by tears.